Two Nights in Heaven
by The Great Red Dragon
Summary: After his fight with Indramon, Impmon is nursed by Takato and Guilmon. Injured and delirious, Impmon is distressed by his belief that he has died, and the partners struggle to heal both his physical and psychological trauma. Written for Readasaur.


Two Nights in Heaven

* * *

 _Part I: Impmon_

* * *

" _You think I have to Digivolve to get strong?! . . . WHY WON'T YOU FIGHT ME!_ "

" _I am a servant of the sovereign, willing to upload your data . . . You should be grateful_ …"

Impmon had been smashed through the ground, and even though everything in his body felt broken, the shameful recollections of moments ago played over and over in his still-intact brain. This was not how he had expected his life to flash before him, but it nevertheless was the first time that the Digimon considered that he had reached the end of his being. He expected his data to de-configure and anticipated the feeling of irresolution to infuse his form, but it did not. Instead, he experienced a sensation like being smothered, with a colossal force pressing upon his face and chest. A needle of panic pierced through clouds in his mind, warning him that he had to fight the pressure, but he had no strength to do so. He whimpered at the imposing wave, which did nothing to keep it from engulfing him. Within moments, he was submerged in sightless dark while his sensory input ebbed. It was unpleasantly peaceful, as though a great party had ended at a moment's notice and he was left deserted, in cemetery silence.

" _So that's it, world_ " he thought to himself before relinquishing consciousness. " _Fine. I don't like you, anyway_."

* * *

In the middle of a lightless limbo, the echo of a familiar voice reached Impmon's detached mind.

"Takatomon!"

" _Oh, great"_ the disembodied Virus-type thought to himself.

"Takatomon! He-ere!"

" _I_ would _need to put up with that pineapple head right now, wouldn't I?"_ Impmon wondered sarcastically, and sank back under the wave of unconsciousness in much the same way that a sleeper would pull a blanket over his head.

* * *

Time had become meaningless for Impmon, whose reprieve from cognizance could have lasted anywhere from a minute to any number of years, as far as he was concerned. Nevertheless, from one moment to the next, he became aware of a staunch brightness beyond his eyelids. Apathetically, he did not feel the need to react to it, choosing instead to float on inky ether like a puff of smoke on the wind. His body, though, did not accommodate him. He only became aware of the fact that he still had a body as a result of the brightness, as its stimulation set off a slow chain reaction to reawaken his physical awareness. He was irritated that he had accidentally conceded that he had eyelids, which meant that he had eyes and a face – one side of which revealed itself to be aching beneath a layer of tingling.

Admitting that he was not simply a meandering strain of consciousness but still in possession of a physical form, Impmon allowed himself to slowly map the condition of his body. Even without moving, he did not like what he sensed. If the side of his face ached, then his arms, legs, neck, and ribs positively panged. As before, the pain seemed buried beneath a puffy, prickling façade and promised to remain within its boundary if only he agreed to not move. Breathing too deeply would be a violation of these terms.

Impmon was fine with that compromise. Wherever he was now, Indramon and all other dangers, irritations, and distractions felt like a million miles away. He would simply lie here, undisturbed, and cooperate with his battered body for as long as necessary. As had been the case during his most recent battle, thinking rationally was an unwelcome function. It was better to just be still.

"His nose wiggled! That means he's going to be okay, right?"

The voice came from the western expanse of darkness, to the left of the brightness. It was distant, as though Impmon were hearing it from another room, but the accompanying echo hinted that his hearing may have become impaired by Indramon's beating. This seemed all the more likely when the sound of the speech was accompanied by the sudden awareness of a presence directly beside him. With a treble of wonder, Impmon realized that the brightness was not the only thing encroaching on his dark sanctuary: someone was right next to him.

"Be careful, boy – he still looks really hurt."

The second voice came to him from the general right – to the east of the brightness – and he made no more of an effort to identify it than the first one. They were familiar in the vaguest possible way, but caring about anything besides his own state was a secondary concern. He supposed he would not mind their talking, so long as they did not trouble him. If they touched him-

" _Ah!_ "

They touched him. At least the one on the right did. It touched him on the forehead, and the cold wetness of the contact made him squeak with helpless anguish as hypersensitivity pricked him. The touch was immediately rescinded, but crying out had not only tripped the stasis of his body to unleash painful throes across his limbs and torso, it had made him aware of how dry his throat was and made him cough. This made the pain worse, and he found that he could not stop coughing. As his exhausted, overpowered body struggled to regain control over the pain and the irritation in his throat at the same time, the two voices exchanged words in concerned tones, and within moments, some cold and wet liquid squirted into his mouth.

Even though he coughed up the first amount, it was the best water that Impmon had ever tasted, and he desperately gulped as more was poured over his tongue. There seemed no limit as to how much he could drink, even after he had finished his first draft and then later smacked his lips for more.

The moisture around his mouth and chin was delicately dabbed away, but this was followed by a return of the cold touch from before. He identified it now as a damp cloth dabbing at his forehead; it was pleasant, now, but still chilly. He felt goose bumps rise on his arms, and he shivered (another unpleasant movement). Almost immediately, he felt a fluffy blanket being laid over his body. For the first time in his life, someone tucked him in.

Impmon tried to open his eyes. It went against his initial desire to minimize his senses, but as it was clear now that each of his needs were being attended to without him even speaking, he needed to know who was with him and where he was. As his eyelids slivered open, the brightness fumed at his gaze even when he kept his eyes slit, and he could not bear to look for more than a few blink-filled moments. Nevertheless, it was an enlightening couple of seconds. He saw wings.

The first words he spoke aloud following the fight were quiet and hesitant: "Am…I…in heaven?"

A moment before he lost consciousness again from all of the effort his wakefulness was costing, his face delicately contorted into an anguished grimace.

"Oh _nooo_ …"

* * *

When Impmon awoke again, he was still lying under the blanket but the brightness had dimmed considerably. As he lay motionless, he could intrinsically tell that it was nighttime: the ambiance was too nocturnal and still to be anything but.

He had never expected there to be night in heaven, in much the same way he had never expected to be there at all.

The thought brought him nothing but distress, creeping on him like an insect in the darkness. The implications were too much too much to bear silently.

"I can't be dead" he whispered.

His words triggered movement beside him. By now, Impmon had reclaimed the inclination to investigate his surroundings, but trying to turn his head made his equilibrium sway like loose cargo on a rocking ship. However, the attempt did reveal to him that he was lying on some sort of bedding. It was soft and plushy and snuggly – more like a nest than a mattress.

"Huh? Are you awake?"

Sensing more movement in front of him, Impmon opened his eyes again. It was easier to see – nothing burned his eyes – but his vision was dark and soupy, and merely trying to focus on what was before him made his stomach churn. Nevertheless, he was certain that he had seen them again: the wings, extending from a form silhouetted against a silvery source of light.

There was no doubt about it: he was being attended to by angel.

"Are you okay?" the angel asked him, its voice again distorted by an echo.

Impmon grimaced at the echo, and he sensed the angel shift in response to his expression.

"Does it hurt?" it asked, concern and compassion in its voice.

"I can't be here" Impmon whispered. "I don't want to. I can't be here."

"But you got really hurt" echoed the angel. "Indramon hit you really hard."

"I said I don't wanna flippin' be here!" Impmon snapped; he tried to sound fierce, but in his weakened state, his bark sounded as imposing as the yip of a puppy.

It was too much effort to exert without consequence. As though the exclamation had broken some invisible tether, the Virus-type felt himself being pulled backwards into unconsciousness, which had now taken on the form of dark fog. He tried to struggle against it, but this made his body ache. As he ceased moving, the haze came in like an opportunistic riptide and overtook him. He fell backwards into oblivion without another word – merely a weak clenching of his fists under the blanket.

He did not even have time to realize that his gloves were no longer on his hands.

* * *

 _Part II: Guilmon and Takato_

* * *

In the moonlit dimness, Guilmon watched Impmon for long time after the smaller monster had fallen back to sleep. Duty and alertness were part of Guilmon's digital makeup, and for the rest of the night, he would not even doze. Despite this vigilance, he felt the kind of deep concern that could only be aroused by watching someone important suffer while lacking the means to help them. Impmon could be a bully, but he was hurt bad and by himself – that made him important. Takato had been absolutely adamant about how necessary it was for them to take care of the injured beast, and Guilmon had embraced his partner's wishes with fervor.

Nevertheless, as Guilmon guarded his charge, he wished that Takato was there. Tomorrow seemed very far away for someone as tiny and vulnerable as Impmon to have only one person watching over him.

* * *

It was a testament to the care and tenderness of Takato Matsuki that Impmon did not even awake as Guilmon and he dressed the little devil. Morning had come, and Impmon's feet and arms had been cold to the touch; Takato had anticipated this, and among the contents of his aid-filled backpack was a hooded sweatshirt. It was red, and he had not worn it in months, so it would not be missed by his parents. While Guilmon carefully elevated Impmon's head, shoulders, and hips in succession, the teenager mindfully fitted Impmon's head and torso into the woolen fabric. Impmon did not stir, even as Takato fitted the hood over his large ears.

"He looks a little comfier, now" Guilmon remarked, but there was a bit of forced calmness in his voice that Takato initially interpreted as jealousy.

"None of my clothes would fit you, boy" he said with bracing affection, patting his partner's belly. "I'll see if my dad has any shirts or jackets that he doesn't wear…"

Guilmon smiled, but it was impossible to maintain levity. Both Digimon and Tamer looked upon the incapacitated little beast before them and silently agreed that while Impmon did appear to be a little more comfortable, he still looked very bad. Not even any of their comrades could recall of a time that a Digimon taken this bad of a beating without succumbing to a de-configuration of their data. Indramon had literally beaten Impmon to within an inch of his life, and now he would require a significantly longer time to heal than he would otherwise.

The pair tensed as motion stirred in Impmon's face. He tried to open his eyes, but squinted uncomfortably at the brightness of the morning sun visible through the shrine's entryway, above the trees.

"Oh, right!" said Takato, and rushed to act.

He would not have been able to smuggle the beach umbrella out of his home without being noticed and he had no sunglasses that fit Impmon, but desperation had driven him to resourcefulness. He opened his bag again and pulled out the banner from his birthday of two years ago. As he struggled to span it from one end of the shelter's interior to the other, Guilmon helpfully wrapped his arms about his hips and picked him up easily to reach the corners of the entryway. The effect was sufficient, throwing half of the doorless shelter into shade.

As Impmon would open his eyes and cast his slowly-improving vision about, he would take in the two darkened figures standing before him. Behind them, the words HAPPY BIRTHDAY hung in the air, the letters of which formed from pictures of contorted Digimon.

"Is that better?" Takato asked hopefully.

Impmon gazed at the banner with a drained expression for a long time before closing his eyes again. Takato frowned anxiously, believing that Impmon had gone back to sleep, but when the Virus type uttered a clearly conscious sigh, his heart lightened. For a moment, he expected the little Digimon to belittle him with a snarky remark (at the moment, it would have been the most welcome thing), but when Impmon's lips formed words to say something too quiet for him to hear, Takato realized that he was still far from well.

" _At least he's awake_ " Takato thought to himself as he knelt at Impmon's right side while Guilmon sat down to the left.

"You don't have to talk" he said to the prone little monster. "It must have been weird to wake up here, huh? I'd be confused, too, if the same thing happened to me. I just want you to know that you're safe now, and we're gonna make sure you get better. You kinda chose the perfect time to get hurt – it's Memorial Day today, tomorrow's Sunday, and the day after that's Children's Day, so I'll be here all the while and you can take your time getting better. I even told my parents I'm staying at someone's house, so I don't even have to go home at night. Well, I'll need to leave some time to get more food, and- Oh! Are you hungry? You don't have to talk – just blink once if you're hungry."

Impmon said nothing and did nothing, but the slightest change of expression in his face at the mention of hunger was not lost on Takato's vigilant eyes. The Tamer was not about to hold Impmon to the blinking rule he had established, as he considered that even blinking might be asking too much.

"You _are_ hungry, aren't you?" he said, his tone lighter with happiness at the prospect of being able to do something for the Digimon. "Not a problem! I brought breakfast, lunch, dinner, and snacks! Oh, but you don't have to eat all of it if you're not that hungry. Good thing we've got a walking bread disposal machine with us to take care of any leftovers."

"Huh?" said Guilmon, too focused on Impmon to be clear about what his Tamer was referring to.

Takato's backpack was primarily filled with delicacies lifted from his parents' bakery. He had been particularly daring to take so much fresh pastry, which was generally higher-priced than bread, and he was already thinking of how to return some of his pocket money for the cost. However, he did not regret the act: Impmon barely looked able to chew a piece of gum, much less chew through a slice of the sturdy spelt loaves that the bakery was producing this week. The delicious flaky pastries – buttery croissants, savory rolls, and light pasties – were so exquisitely baked that each bite would practically dissolve on Impmon's tongue.

Again, the partners worked in unison to tend to their patient. Guilmon slid his forearms behind Impmon's head and back, and performed an excellent impression of a slow-rising hospital bed so as to elevate Impmon into a sitting position. The smaller Digimon remained impassive during this, showing no sign of pain or discomfort. This thoroughly heartened the larger Digimon and his Tamer; apparently, Impmon was beginning to recover after all.

Takato sat on his knees at Impmon's side and lined up the baked goods and water bottle on his backpack like surgical tools on a tray. He offered Impmon the bottle first, which was refused, before offering the croissant. Impmon gazed slug-eyed at the pastry with all the enthusiasm of a rock, but he parted his lips and opened his mouth to receive the smallest of bites. Takato and Guilmon watched raptly as Impmon's jaw inched up and down before the Digimon swallowed. The action seemed difficult for him, and when he managed it, he sighed with exhaustion.

"Good job, Impmon!" Guilmon cheered supportively.

Impmon subsequently did accept a sip of water, and – with the help of several more sips – succeeded in nibbling a chunk out of the croissant before clearly becoming too full or exhausted to continue eating. He fell asleep from one moment to the next, between drinks, whereupon Takato gently wiped the crumbs from his chin and plucked them from the collar of the red sweatshirt.

"You can lay him down again, Guilmon" the Tamer whispered, and the dinosaur monster obliged.

Guilmon did not, however, move from where he sat. Takato looked away to transfer the remaining pastries back into their plastic bag (save the ones that would be his and Guilmon's breakfast), and when he looked back, his partner had merely lowered Impmon's head into his lap. Guilmon's crossed legs rested upon the edge of the nest, and the back of Impmon's hooded scalp rested on Guilmon's sturdy calves.

"You're taking good care of him, aren't you?" Takato complimented with a smile.

Guilmon did not return the smile. His gaze rose from Impmon's face to Takato's, and the Tamer saw deep concern was streaked across his reptilian features.

"Takatomon, is Impmon going to be okay?" he asked meekly.

"I…think so" the teenager replied slowly, realizing that he had become the adult of the situation.

He crawled over to sit beside his partner and their patient. "If he'd been really beaten, then he wouldn't be here at all, anymore. I think he's just really been knocked out and needs some time to get well again."

"He doesn't want to be here" Guilmon professed, and recounted the event of the night before to his partner.

"Aw, he's just grumpy" Takato assured Guilmon, making a second attempt for levity. "He's probably embarrassed that he needs someone to take care of him. Don't worry – he'll be fine enough to be a royal pain again, soon."

Guilmon nodded, but his expression remained troubled as he returned his gaze to the sleeping Impmon, who appeared tiny in Takato's oversized hoodie. Takato laid an arm across Guilmon's shoulders and decided against saying anything more on the matter for the moment. In the moment, he knew that words would not speed Impmon's recovery and that Guilmon had already derived all the assurance he could from his Tamer's impression. The best they could both do now was wait and accept that the support they could give Impmon was limited. Valuable, but limited.

It was the first time in memory that a parcel of bread had sat so close by and Guilmon had not shown any inclination to dig into it. Takato actually had to remind his friend to eat.

* * *

 _Part III: Impmon_

* * *

Impmon was, in fact, feeling better. Remarkably better, even: his body had relented on punishing him for small movements and looking at things no longer induced nausea. He still could not see very well, but thought that may have had to do with the dimness of the dwelling he was in (he had recognized that there was an inside and an outside to his location and that he was in the former). Eating had been a strenuous exercise, but even as he rested in a state of near-sleep, he imagined that he could feel the ambrosia's nutrients coursing through his form and repairing the damage done to him. He had a feeling that when he opened his eyes again next, he would feel even better yet.

The thought did not delight him in the slightest. While the pain and drowsiness had not exactly been his friends, they had been effective distractions against the reality of his situation. He was dead and he was in heaven – these things were unacceptable, so much so that he had actually snapped at an angel. Impmon was done shouting, his anger having dissipated with each nibble of the delicious food, but he still was deeply discontent with his situation. He knew that, rationally, he ought to be happy about how things had turned out, but he could not bring himself to this. There were some very important things wrong about his being here, and they had to be addressed.

Even though the feeling of emotional instability had followed him into his dreaming state, he knew that he had to assert himself again, once he had the opportunity. This opportunity arose faster than he had expected, when he awoke in the shade of an auburn-colored sun and in the presence of a single angel.

* * *

 _Part IV: Guilmon and Takato_

* * *

Takato was fitting on Impmon's right glove when the small Digimon opened his eyes. The Tamer was so careful about his work that he had begun sliding on the left one before he realized that he was being watched.

"Sorry" he said, showing Impmon a smile. "I didn't mean to wake you up. But I washed these for you, and your bandana, and I figured you'd want them, once you're well again."

Impmon said nothing and merely looked at Takato with the same half-lidded expression from several hours ago. The absence of a sneer or grimace was still something the Tamer was still getting used to. Though he had no doubt that Impmon was still woozy, he felt the certain sensation of being studied; despite this, he kept up a pleasant monologue while gently tying the bandana around Impmon's neck.

"You slept right through lunch. You can actually have dinner now, if you feel like it. Not a lot of people are in the park around this time, so I sent Guilmon to throw our trash away. I told him to take his time; he's so worried about you, I thought it'd be a good idea if he just took a break… Not that it's a problem that we're taking care of you! I mean, what kind of guys would we be if we didn't? It's actually kind of fun. And because you're already looking better and not sleeping as long anymore, you'll probably be fine in just a little bit longer. Maybe when we're done, we could all do something fun together to celebrate. I mean, I know we haven't exactly been pals, but it doesn't have to stay that way. Having you on the team would be really cool-"

"Do I have to stay here?" asked Impmon, his voice stronger than before but raspy and tired-sounding.

Takato nevertheless blinked in surprise at the sudden question. He was glad that Impmon was up to speaking, but found this an odd query to make.

"You'd rather be somewhere else?" he asked. "I mean, sure. This place just seemed the easiest. If you have anything in mind…"

"I wanna go back" Impmon declared. "It don't have to be for long. Just… Just a while. A year."

"Go back? A year?" Takato repeated, surprised and beginning to suspect a miscommunication. "What do you mean?... You mean, back to the fight? I don't think that'd be such a great idea, Impmon."

"Just back" the Digimon returned. "It doesn't even haveta be a year. Half a year. Or a month. That's all I need."

"A month…? Oh!"

In an instant, Takato grasped what the Digimon was talking about.

"Impmon, I don't know how to break this to you, but you're not dead!"

"Don't lie to me" Impmon replied, a quaver in his tone. "I know I'm a gone goner. I haveta be."

"You're not" Takato insisted, his voice still sympathetic. "…But why do you think that?"

"Because you're being so swell to me" Impmon said, his lips pursed as he worked to keep his chin from quivering. "It's gotta be heaven. No one's ever been this nice to me. Not since…"

He trailed off, but the cryptic half-statement piqued Takato's attention. He sat quietly and said nothing. Impmon, who had looked away as he developed a frown, clearly was having difficulty in handling the silence. He shifted uncomfortably in his nest, struggling a little against the confines of the sweatshirt, but was clearly still too weak to go anywhere. When he stopped, he lay with his arms crossed as well as he could manage and his face half-hidden by the red hood.

"You guys give me everything I need" he grumbled. "I don't even gotta ask. So don't tell me I'm not in heaven. Don't tell me that, and don't try and tell me I deserve to be in heaven. I don't deserve nothin'."

Takato was struck by the declaration. This was his first peek into Impmon's personal thoughts. He would have expected negativity, but this hint of self-loathing was a surprise.

"Impmon…" he cooed, in as tender a tone as he could. "Of course you'd deserve to go to heaven. But you're not. You're fine – honest."

"Stop saying that!" demanded the Virus-type, his voice cracking with sorrow. "I… I know there's worse guys than me, but that still don't mean I deserve to be here! If I can't even forgive myself, how're you supposed to, huh?"

The sound of Impmon clearly fighting the urge to cry broke the Tamer's heart. It repelled and beckoned him dearly at the same time. He wanted to fix whatever was wrong, hugging Impmon in the process, but he was simultaneously afraid of worsening the situation. Carefully, he placed a hand over the blanket at the end of the nest, over what he imagined to be one of Impmon's feet.

"Hey… Don't cry" Takato urged, making a weak attempt to smile. "If you start crying, I might start, too."

But Impmon did cry. Elevated breathing became sobs in a matter of seconds, and even with half of his face hidden, Impmon could not hide the thick tears beginning to rush down his pale face.

As Impmon truly began to weep, a noise behind made Takato turn, and he found Guilmon standing in the shrine's entryway. The Digimon stared over his Tamer's shoulder at the unprecedented sight of Impmon openly shedding tears. His expression of surprise and terrible helplessness was almost too much for Takato to take in addition to Impmon, and he acted on the moment by getting to his feet and hurrying over to assure him that Impmon was not hurt – simply heartbroken over a matter too personal to speak openly about.

"Let me go back!" Impmon wailed, raising his fists to under his chin. "I can't die without fixing it! I was a wimp 'cause I left the last time, but I have to go back and do something! I can't just leave…! Not without even saying goodbye…! Don't you get it - it ain't even their fault! They're just babies!"

With what must have been exceptional effort, Impmon managed to roll onto his side and curl into a loose ball. He placed his newly gloved hands over his eyes and sobbed wetly, repeating over and over "Let me go back…"

Takato felt unable to even begin addressing this problem. Impmon's confession was still too enigmatic to make sense of, and all he knew was that the Digimon had opened up about a hitherto hidden and immaculately important part of his life – something so important that it trounced even the prospect of an afterlife. Impmon had been rendered so fragile that he appeared to already be in the process of breaking, and all Takato could think to do was to let him cry himself out.

He turned to his partner, whispering that they ought to step outside of the shrine and leave Impmon be, but he was stopped by the look on Guilmon's face. The Digimon's countenance now bore an mistakable resolve – not as fierce as the kind when he faced down an enemy, but seemingly no less unshakable. He looked at Takato, wordlessly conveying that leaving Impmon alone was out of the question and that he had a plan.

Guilmon grasped Takato's hand with his claws and led the teenager to the crying Digimon. He made a motion, and Takato and he simultaneously lowered themselves down to either side of Impmon's body – all the way. Takato lay down on his side, on the edge of Impmon's nest, in the dirt, and faced the weeping beast. Guilmon scooted closer to Impmon's body from behind and Takato mirrored him. Together, they formed a loose but warm cocoon around their patient, who sobbed even louder when Guilmon laid a gently paw on his sleeved arm. The larger Digimon pet him until the sobs diminished in frequency and intensity, at which point Takato joined in by tenderly pushing his hand under Impmon's hood and petting his ears.

Over a matter of minutes, the Tamer felt Impmon's shakes and shudders ebb. It coincided with a reduction in sniffling. If Impmon was still crying, he was doing so very softly. Takato felt himself calming down as well, as though his level of excitement had been tied to the small Digimon's. Impmon's ears were soft and plushy in his hand, not stiff like he had expected, and petting him was much like petting a small animal. He could not help but be reminded of the cat he had brought home, that time before he became a Tamer…

As it turned out, Guilmon's strategy was multifold. While Takato petted Impmon, Guilmon opened the nearby backpack and removed food and drink. He held these in his paws and passed them in turn to his Tamer – first the water, then a pastry – to offer to Impmon, who delicately partook of both. Guilmon set the remnants aside and resumed his position behind Impmon, but scooted closer than he was before. Takato estimated that his partner's pale belly touched Impmon's blanket.

At this point, Takato would have congratulated Guilmon on his handling of the situation. He had long thought that he played a parental role to his Digimon, but he realized now that his partner's ability to nurture was far from underdeveloped; Guilmon clearly knew how to protect someone's wellbeing even outside of a battle. However, what the Digimon did next was even more surprising, and it was definitely more than the Tamer would have thought to do.

Takato looked up at the sound of humming to find Guilmon purring gently to Impmon, his downturned gaze as soft as butter. The larger Virus-type began to sing, and though his key was far from perfect, his tone was astonishingly smooth.

 _Sleep, Impmon, sleep_

 _Takato's counting sheep_

 _Guilmon climbs the slumber tree_

 _And picks for you a dream or three_

 _Sleep, Impmon, sleep_

He repeated the lullaby several times until after Impmon's muscles relaxed even more. Takato glanced into their patient's face moments before Impmon's green eyes closed, and found his expression calm but also oddly incredulous, as though something inexplicable had just occurred. Takato wondered whether Guilmon's song had weakened or strengthened his delusion about being dead, and he silently resolved to clear up the matter once Impmon awoke again. Under no circumstances did Takato ever wish to see him so sad and so helpless again; he would gladly accept any snipe if the alternative were a recession to this.

"Guilmon… That was perfect" Takato whispered over Impmon's head, and his partner smiled – the first time he had done so in hours.

"Impmon's like our little baby" he remarked, and lowered his snout to gently nuzzle the back of the smaller Digimon's hooded head. "Even if he's mean again, I can always remember him like this and not be made."

* * *

 _Part V: Impmon_

* * *

In his dream, Impmon was wrestling with Calumon in a ring. He wanted Calumon to win because he hated the prize that they were competing for, but Calumon – with infuriating niceness – kept lying down on the canvas for him.

"You deserve it more than me!" he chirped, the last syllable of which seemed to ring in Impmon's ears as he awoke to stillness.

He could see clearly now, and the bright flickering before him that he initially took for a fire turned out to be a flickering electric lantern that cast shadows around the shrine and illuminated the birthday banner. It was a warm night – too warm for a blanket, and he was glad that he was not wrapped in it anymore. He was still, however, wearing the sweatshirt. He inspected it for the first time, and found it to be pretty nice, albeit old. It was thinned with age, and he wondered why he was still feeling so very warm.

Impmon looked across the ground and spotted the nest he had slept in, empty. He wondered where he was lying now, and looked upwards. What he saw not only enlightened him to his initial query, it also explained why he was feeling so warm.

He had become part of a virtual totem pole that also included Takato and Guilmon. He was lying in Takato's arms, which the teenager rested on his drawn-up knees. In turn, Takato sat in the lap of Guilmon, whose arms encircled not only his Tamer but also Impmon. The two of them dozed, remaining upright by leaning against each other. It was impossible to say how long all of them had been arranged like that.

As his wardens slept, Impmon felt no need to look away from their faces. He had regained his wits enough during the lullaby to not only note the familiar names that had been repeated to him, but also to finally attach them to the vaguely-familiar voices. After that, the remaining connections seemed to have been made while he slept, for he had woken up no longer convinced that he was in heaven or even dead, and fully aware of who his angels were.

He had just been beaten up and the stupid pineapple head and his human leash-holder had done such a good job of taking care of him that he had been convinced that he was in paradise. This knowledge would have usually made Impmon beat his head against the ground in shame, but for the moment, it just made him feel contemplative. Impmon realized that in the context of his own delusion, he had been given even more than he had asked for: he was in the real world, under no time limit other than his own resourcefulness, and was free to act on the reason that made him reject heaven. The angels had given him that opportunity, and they had been revealed as the objects of his real-world obsession.

Impmon's ego clawed its way out from the stasis of his psyche. He could not help but feel as though he had been made a fool of. His vindictive nature wanted very much to assign all blame to the Digimon and Tamer who held him now, but some underutilized part of him that had been revived during the last thirty-two hours – perhaps his conscience – stopped it from painting the image of their sleeping face with guilty red slashes. With effort, he admitted to himself that he had crafted the fantasy entirely by himself.

As a result, the regret and frustration he felt towards his relationship with the two little people in his life did not entwine with the jealousy and insincere antipathy he felt towards Guilmon and his Tamer. As a matter of fact, he was able to separate his negative feelings towards both pairs from what he really liked and loved about them. He even recognized their common quality: both had accepted him into their lives with utter inclusiveness, snarkiness and all.

* * *

Impmon turned over in Takato's arms with the intention of climbing free. He was not sure whether he actually wanted to leave the shrine, but he could not remain where he was. Part of the same dislike he had expressed for himself earlier in the day told him now that he did deserve to be held like this. This cuddle pile was for cloyingly sweet kids, not little squirts of vinegar like him.

He just begun to exert himself when he sensed movement, and immediately closed his eyes and went limp – feigning sleep like a child. Overhead, he thought he heard the faint clicking of blinks as Takato opened his eyes. He felt the boy observing his motionless form as clearly as if it were a finger on his body, and wondered whether Takato would remain awake. He hoped not; if he did choose to leave, it would be a lot more awkward in front of a conscious audience.

Through the stillness, Guilmon snorted. Impmon felt the gaze leave him and imagined that Takato had touched the back of his head against his partner.

"It's okay" Takato whispered through the dimness. "Everything's fine. You can go back to sleep."

As Guilmon appeared to do just that, Impmon expected those to be the last words he would hear that night. They were not…but the tender kiss to his cheek that preceded them was infinitely more surprising.

"It's gonna be okay for you, too, Impmon" Takato whispered, and resumed sleep as well.

In the silence that followed, Impmon lay stunned as though struck by a Pico Dart. Kisses in general disarmed him, but a kiss from Takato was a shock that opened his eyes and stained his cheeks pink.

It was going to be all right for him, too… For _him_ …

Against all deeply-ingrained cynicism, Impmon took a chance and trusted in Takato's words. He sank back against the boy's arms and allowed the warmth of his body to join that of his caregivers. He consciously let his defenses fall and opened himself to the comfort that such closeness brings.

Also, he consciously made the decision to make a change. It might take some effort to hold himself to the promise in the daytime, given his long-fostered apprehensiveness, but he was now determined to make a trip to the other side of Shinjuku and see his babies, and this time, he would not just watch them from afar.

He additionally promised himself not to forget what had been done for him. His private campaign against the union of humans and Digimon would subsequently be more difficult to uphold than maintaining this memory. Changes were on the horizon, so he thought to himself in the dimness, and they would begin with giving himself the allowance of being content and happy – right now, right there, in the little patch of heaven that he had created with Takato and Guilmon.

* * *

The End


End file.
